


don't hide, don't hide

by dottie_wan_kenobi



Series: Harry Potter (series) Fics [19]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bickering, Cuddling & Snuggling, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Lie Low At Lupin's (Harry Potter), M/M, POV Remus Lupin, Post-Sirius Black in Azkaban, Sharing a Bed, Trauma, a few more lil warnings inside, canon means nothing to me, slightly open but positive ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27704143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottie_wan_kenobi/pseuds/dottie_wan_kenobi
Summary: Remus sighs and runs a hand over his face, pressing in a little like it might relieve some of his tension headache. “For the last time,” he says, though he knows it’s useless. Sirius used to do things over and over again after ‘the last time’ just to spite him. “You are not sleeping on the floor.”“I really don’t mind,” he says, like somehow Remus is only saying all of this out of a sense of propriety, one Sirius is all too happy to release him from. “I already told you, I’ll just shift into Padfoot and find somewhere—you know, if you’re really so worried, you could give me a blanket to lay on, that would be—”“No,” Remus says, a tad too forcefully. But the idea of giving Sirius a blanket and laying it on some worn bit of floor, then fucking off to sleep in his actual bed (no matter how thin the mattress may be), makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. It’s not an option. It doesn’t matter how normal it’s become for Sirius, it doesn’t matter that some small part of him still revolts against the idea of Sirius being innocent.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: Harry Potter (series) Fics [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1799116
Comments: 15
Kudos: 199





	don't hide, don't hide

**Author's Note:**

> Additional Warnings: there is some homophobia in this, very small/brief mentions concerning Remus hiding his bisexuality in the 70s. There's also a single line which expresses a suicidal thought, also set in the 70s. There are also several mentions/one vague mention of violence/abuse.
> 
> With that out of the way. YALL. THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE SMUT!!!! Short smut! And in a move that is very me, what we actually have here is 5k of angst. I might write more for this AU someday and finally do the smut I wanted to write but for now this is what we got
> 
> Title from "come out and play" by Billie Eilish!

When they were younger, everything used to be a fight. Taking care of each other, getting homework done or ignoring it in favor of more interesting pursuits, whether or not the other was eating enough, who got to sit in the big armchair by the fireplace.  _ Everything _ . There were times when not arguing felt weirder than it did to shout at Sirius from across the dorm, or to get yelled at as he escaped down hidden tunnels.

They weren’t really angry with each other. Other than the one time—which was something he avoided thinking about at all costs, most days—he was mostly just upset that Sirius never listened. Didn’t he realize Remus knew what he was talking about? Didn’t he know that Remus had his best interests in mind? That he was insisting Sirius eat and do his homework and get enough sleep because he cared. (Though, admittedly, he’d wanted that chair for himself and himself only. Purely selfish, that.)

If Sirius had known, he never showed it. But he did fight back, turning it around on Remus and claiming he was the one not eating enough, not having enough fun cooped up with his essays, waking up from nightmares Remus wouldn’t let him cuddle away.

(He never let him because cuddling nightmares away, he’d thought, was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard.)

Somehow, in all their time apart, Remus has forgotten about these things. They’ve fallen to the wayside with the other little details, like how James slurped his soup and how Peter would giggle like mad when he was drinking butterbeer. He’s forgotten that he once told Sirius, “Cuddling won’t help anything.”

Now they’re standing on either side of Remus’s living room, both of them unable to meet the other’s eyes even though they’ve been arguing back and forth for an hour.

Remus sighs and runs a hand over his face, pressing in a little like it might relieve some of his tension headache. “For the last time,” he says, though he knows it’s useless. Sirius used to do things over and over again after ‘the last time’ just to spite him. “You are not sleeping on the floor.”

Sirius looks somewhere over Remus’s shoulder, his jaw set. He still looks roughly the same, even if he is so much thinner and paler, even if the fire that lived in his eyes has cooled to embers. He’s here, he’s arguing, he’s convinced he’s right. So much has changed, but not that. Remus supposes he shouldn’t be surprised.

“I really don’t mind,” he says, like somehow Remus is only saying all of this out of a sense of propriety, one Sirius is all too happy to release him from. “I already told you, I’ll just shift into Padfoot and find somewhere—you know, if you’re really so worried, you could give me a blanket to lay on, that would be—”

“No,” Remus says, a tad too forcefully. But the idea of giving Sirius a blanket and laying it on some worn bit of floor, then fucking off to sleep in his actual bed (no matter how thin the mattress may be), makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. It’s not an option. It doesn’t matter how normal it’s become for Sirius, it doesn’t matter that some small part of him still revolts against the idea of Sirius being innocent. (Spending thirteen years questioning what you thought you’d known, turning every good memory you’d had with someone into a moment of wondering, “Was that when it happened? Was it ever real?”—it stuck around. He knows Peter was the one who did it. He knows that. But he used to wake up from nightmares of Sirius laughing in his face as he killed him. He doesn’t know if that little bit of him will ever go away, no matter how much he wants it to.)

Sirius flinches, his fingers twitching where he’s holding his elbows, hugging himself. He never used to do that. “O-okay, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Apologizing. Sirius apologizing. He has no idea how to deal with that—it was so rare, something he only did when he well and truly fucked up. Remus presses the heels of his palms into his shut eyes, watching the squiggly lines float around in his dark vision. How did he used to win these things? He can’t remember.

“Sirius, stop,” he says, still not looking. “Just stop for a second.”

Sirius goes silent and just stands there, unmoving. He used to pace around, his arms flying in the air as he complained about this or that or everything. This newfound stillness is off-putting and upsetting.

He lets his hands fall, and sits on the sofa, a tiny thing that’s only a little bit more uncomfortable than the bed. Forcing himself to meet Sirius’s eyes, he says, “I’m not… doing any of this because I think I have to. I didn’t bring you here because I thought I should, and I’m not offering you my bed because it’s only right. I—I still—you’re my friend. Still. If you’ll have me.”

(He remembers the war. He remembers Sirius pushing him away, his gray eyes icy, yet they melted him all the same. The realization that they would never be the same again. Laying on forest floors, surrounded by other werewolves, thinking over and over about how Sirius was so far away, too far away for him to reach anymore. Were they still friends? He’d wondered.  _ No _ , he’d told himself.  _ Why not _ , his heart had cried, and Remus had crushed it down before it could affect his mission.)

(The wolf had looked for Padfoot for months. Months and months of desperately howling for his pack to come back to him, to not leave him alone anymore. He’d felt that bond most keenly with the other canine, and it took much too long for the stupid animal to realize Padfoot was not coming back. Ever.)

“I will,” Sirius says, his gaze flickering all over Remus’s face.

A bubble of— _ something _ expands in his chest. Maybe relief. Maybe gut-wrenching regret. Maybe the overwhelming urge to fall to the ground, sobbing and screaming, and rage against fate or whatever bullshit has left them like this—alone and miserable and hurt.

“Well—well, thank you,” he says, awkward because that’s better than sounding choked up. “You’re my friend, and I want to make sure you’re alright. Sleeping on the floor is not alright.”

“It is, though,” Sirius interrupts. He inches closer, standing with his hip against the arm of the sofa. “It is alright. I’ve been doing it for years, and I’m  _ fine _ . I don’t need a blanket, it’s okay, it’s already warmer here than—” He cuts himself off before he can say it, much to their mutual relief. “Just. This place is worlds better in every conceivable way. I don’t need to sleep in your bed, and I don’t want to take it away from you. Not worth it.”

He can’t stomach thinking about what Azkaban must’ve been like. He doesn’t want his home, however small and pathetic, to be anything like that place. But he can’t—he won’t—say that to him.

An idea comes to him then, some relic of their old fights, a strategy he sometimes used to win. He sits back and crosses his arms. “Well, I’m not going to sleep in it if you’re out here on the floor.”

Sirius’s face pinches. “Moony.”

“Find a good spot big enough for the both of us.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You have a bed, so use it!” Sirius steps back, then paces back and forth a few times. His arms are still tight to his stomach. “You’re not sleeping on the bloody floor.”

“Then neither are you,” Remus says, daring him to argue.

They stare at each other for a long, long moment. Remus can’t read what he’s thinking at all—the familiar expressions are there, but the meaning behind them lost to time. Finally, Sirius says, “I’ll take the sofa then.”

“Absolutely not.” Remus leans forward, glancing at the threadbare cushions. It’s too small for any adult to lay on, especially someone as tall as Sirius. 

“Absolutely  _ yes _ . There’s nothing wrong with it!”

“It’s too small, for one, and for two, it feels like—”

“Stop being stubborn, Moony, it’s better than the floor.”

“Stubborn? You’re the one being stubborn right now!” Remus shakes his head.  _ He’s  _ being stubborn? Because he won’t let Sirius be uncomfortable? Honestly! “Listen to me. You’re not sleeping on the bloody floor or the sofa. I’m not allowing it.”

“Fine. Fine. But I’m  _ not  _ taking your bed away from you.”

“And I’m the one being stubborn,” Remus mutters under his breath. Louder, he says, “Fine then. We’ll have to share.”

That makes Sirius pause. He looks through the open doorway to Remus’s bedroom, a magically enlarged room that’s maybe—if he’s being generous—half the size of the rooms they had in London, after graduation and before everything went to shit. It’s bare and empty except for a few pieces of furniture, all of his pictures and posters left behind with Lyall, where the memories are safe and secure. 

“Share the bed?” Sirius asks. His voice wobbles, but Remus can’t tell if it’s confusion or annoyance or something else causing it.

“It’s big enough,” Remus shrugs. “And didn’t you say, once, that cuddling is healing?”

He still doesn’t really believe that. But he knows Sirius will appreciate it.

Sure enough, Sirius turns to look at him, eyes narrowed a bit. “I did,” he says slowly. “And you said it was bullshit.”

There are so many ways he could respond to that. ‘I know, and I still think so’, or ‘Does that matter right now?’, or ‘I never tested the theory, but I can now’. What he ends up saying is, “If you’d rather find a spot for us both out here, be my guest. But we’re sharing either way.”

It’s a cop-out, and Sirius knows it. But he huffs and sits beside him on the sofa and doesn’t say anything else about it.

* * *

That night, Sirius stands next to the bed, fists clenching and loosening repeatedly. He’s wearing loaned clothing that hangs off him in spots, but is at least clean (and not the rags he wore in the closest thing to hell on this planet). Remus leaves him be, unsure of what he could or should say right now. He changes in the loo, brushes his teeth, and makes sure the front and back doors are locked before approaching the bed.

“Alright?” He asks, pulling the sheets back.

“If I say no, will you let me go back out there?”

“No, I’ll make you say what’s making you so uncomfortable so we can deal with it.”

Sirius doesn’t reply except to say, “Lay down, then.”

Remus gets under the covers, feeling Sirius’s eyes on him. It makes him feel a little squirmy, but then, he always has. And it’s odd, suddenly having someone around in a space that he’s always been alone in.

Before he can say anything about Sirius joining him, Sirius shifts into Padfoot. He jumps onto the mattress, the springs squeaking, and curls into a tight ball at the edge of the mattress, no part of him—not even his tail or whiskers—touching Remus. When he looks up, Remus can read his expression, for the first time in years.  _ Leave it alone _ , he’s saying.  _ Don’t make me change back. _

“Oh, Pads. Take the pillow, at least.”

Remus doesn’t wait for him to react, just plucks up the second pillow (which doesn’t get much use, really). He pushes it at Padfoot until the dog snout lifts from the mattress, and slides it in the space below. Padfoot lays his head down on it, his eyes shutting in what looks like pure bliss. It encourages Remus to pull the top layer off and lay it over him, though he doesn’t tuck it in—Padfoot used to panic a bit, not being able to get out of blankets. He can’t imagine that’s changed.

He sighs, some of the tension in his body releasing. Accomplished, Remus lays back down, and though he’s worried about how well he’ll be able to sleep with someone else around, he finds it’s actually quite easy.

* * *

In the morning, he wakes up to Sirius clinging to him. His vision is filled with dark hair and pale skin, and he feels trapped with arms wrapped around his chest, their legs caught together between the sheets.

“Pads?” He mumbles, shutting his eyes. Feeling a bit uncomfortable isn’t enough to make him want to wake up right now. The bed is warm and smells like his soap, the body pressing against his is grounding and safe, and he didn’t dream at all. He just wants to exist in this for as long as he can.

“’M sorry,” Sirius whispers, his mouth somewhere below Remus’s ear. Some shivery part of him wants Sirius to keep talking—another is pointing out that it would be so easy for Sirius to kill him like this. He doesn’t have a wand, but Remus’s is right there on the bedside table. He has such long arms. He could just reach over and grab it.

Remus ignores all of these thoughts, deeming them unimportant. “Go back to sleep,” he says, tightening his arm around Sirius’s back—he doesn’t know when it got there—and slipping back off into nothingness.

When he wakes again later, he’s alone.

He doesn’t think about earlier, just goes through his morning routine, stumbling to the loo and changing into more appropriate day clothes a few minutes later. Sirius is sitting at the small table, in the chair Remus always sits in. There are only two—not enough space for more than that—but of course, he’s found the right one.

Remus steps around him to get to the kitchen, needing his morning tea with a sudden fierceness.

Of course Sirius is in his chair. Of course Sirius was bloody right that cuddling is healing. Of course Sirius didn’t kill him when he had the chance and is now sitting there looking tired and worn and as dangerous as a kitten. Of course. He can’t deal with this yet.

“Alright, Remus?”

He mumbles something incoherent, leaning his head against the cabinets. “I’m not awake,” he says.

Sirius huffs, not an upset sound but an amused one. It makes Remus smile, even as he tries and fails to remember what Sirius’s laugh sounds like.

“And you?” He asks after a few quite moments.

“And me what?”

“Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Sirius says, too quick to really mean it. He taps his fingers on the table until it rattles, and he abruptly stops, pulling his hands back completely. “Er, look, Moony—I’m sorry about this morning.”

“Don’t be,” Remus replies, grabbing two cups. Apologizing again, dear Merlin. If his sixteen-year-old self could see this… well, he’d probably have a breakdown. But he’d make time to feel the same queasy shock he feels now.

“I shouldn’t have switched back, I didn’t mean to—”

“Sirius, it’s  _ fine _ . Do you want any sugar?”

He sighs, “No.”

Neither of them speak as Remus prepares their tea and brings them over. He sits in the other chair, seeing the whole cottage from a perspective he never has before. He blinks away the confused strangeness of a place that should be familiar and hands the plain black tea to Sirius. Their fingers brush against each other, and Sirius yanks his hand back again, nearly dropping his cup.

Remus sits back, not commenting on it, and takes a sip. He knows he shouldn’t expect things to be the same—neither of them are the same dumb kids they were the last time they lived together—but this is so awkward. When did he forget how to talk to Sirius? When did touching him start to feel forbidden? (And why didn’t it feel like that this morning?)

“Why did you shift in the first place? You didn’t have to.”

Sirius slurps at his tea. There are dark circles under his eyes, and Remus wonders if he slept at all. “Habit,” he says. “And there are fewer nightmares that way.”

“So you slept then?”

Sirius shrugs. “A bit.”

A bit. He hums. “Do whatever you need to do to sleep, Pads. Don’t worry about me, it didn’t bother me last night. I doubt it’ll be an issue.”

* * *

And, as it turns out, it’s not. The first week passes, and Sirius spends half of his time—and always when he gets into bed—as Padfoot. Some of the awkwardness eases, if only because Remus devotes much of his attention to scritching Padfoot’s ears, rubbing his hands over the dirty fur, and reveling in the nostalgic warmth of the dog being halfway in his lap. Sirius always makes sure he’s not close when he shifts back, and Remus hopes someday he’ll feel comfortable enough to do it how he and James and Peter always used to—sometimes literally laying in a pile on the floor.

But those days are over, and any cuddling being done happens on the floor—which Padfoot usually pulls away from after a while—or in the bed, mostly while Remus is asleep. He mourns, just a little, that he doesn’t remember much of it. But on the other hand, he’s sleeping better than he has in ages, so he’s not too upset.

He isn’t sure if the same can be said for Sirius. He’s always awake when Remus wakes up, sitting in the kitchen and looking out the windows as he waits for Remus to get out of bed. Sometimes he naps on the sofa as Padfoot, laying in weak sunlight and always looking like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. Once, he wakes in a panic, shifting into Sirius before rapidly going back to Padfoot, and running to hide under the bed.

Remus doesn’t know what he can do to help him and thinks Sirius probably doesn’t know either. So he watches it happen, and tries to reassure him that he’s there and has no plans of leaving anytime soon. There are lots of things Sirius does and worries about—like wanting to spend time alone in the other room, or reading one of Remus’s books, or making them tea instead of waiting for him to do it—that Remus tells him are alright, too. He wonders where the Sirius who could walk into a totally new place like it was his own went, and thinks darkly,  _ Azkaban _ . Obviously.

* * *

On the morning of the eighth day together, that’s when things change.

Remus has been waking up slowly, crusty-eyed and bleary, and it’s no different that morning. He yawns, spitting Sirius’s hair out of his mouth, and shifts under the blanket, stretching his legs and relishing the tingling feeling. His arm is around Sirius’s back again, and he pulls him closer without thinking, enjoying the intimacy of being pressed against someone from shoulder to ankle.

He’s slipping in between sleep and vague awareness when he realizes—Sirius is asleep. His breathing is slow and deep, puffing against Remus’s neck. One of his hands is tucked under his chin, the other resting on Remus’s hip. His face, what Remus can see of it anyway, has smoothed a bit, the lines no longer so pronounced. 

He doesn’t look like the sixteen-year-old, the twenty-year-old Remus knew. He looks like a grown man, one who’s had a terrible time of it, and he looks relaxed for the first time in days, and Remus—Remus thinks,  _ fuck _ .

* * *

(Remus at seventeen was a little shit of the worst kind. And even more than that, he was a liar. He lied about everything to everyone except the other Marauders, and even then there were things they didn’t know about him. Like how he would sit alone in the Astronomy Tower not to get away from them, but to look down at the ground and think about the fall. Like how he said he never remembered full moon nights, but could actually sense lingering emotions, flashes of things that happened—especially things like Moony’s insatiable need to make Padfoot bare his stomach and neck to him.

The biggest thing they didn’t know was that Remus has feelings for men too. Has  _ always  _ had feelings for men. He didn’t have to hide the crushes he got on girls, didn’t have to pretend not to notice their bodies and their mouths. He did for other boys—he made very sure no one ever caught him looking or thinking or fantasizing.

But he couldn’t help himself, sometimes, from flirting, or whatever pathetic approximation he was capable of back then.)

(“You can have the chair,” he’d said to Sirius, gesturing to the best chair by the fire, the one that he always fought tooth and nail for. He’d wanted it then, too, but Sirius had been flung down a flight of stairs by a Slytherin’s hex earlier that afternoon. He needed it more. Remus could give it up for one day if it meant Sirius stopped glaring, dead-eyed, at everyone in his wake.

Sirius’s eyes narrowed. He looked between Remus and the chair a few times, searching. Finally, he crossed his arms—gingerly, his ribs still tender despite the treatment from Pomfrey—and said, “What did you do to it?”

Remus was affronted and didn’t bother to hide it. “Nothing! If I was going to prank you after what happened earlier, it’d be with something like a blanket that tucks itself in. Or tea that reheats itself.”

“So the chair isn’t going to, like, swallow me, is it?”

“No, but we should try that out on stupid Mulciber.”

“I like the way you think,” Sirius had laughed. He’d gone to the chair, then, and sunk into it trustingly. Nothing happened, except that Remus’s stomach settled a little at seeing him comfortable and safe in their common room. Then—”Come here,” Sirius said and pulled Remus down into his lap.

Across the room, Mary hid a laugh behind her hand.

Flushed, Remus rolled off onto the floor and reminded himself that Sirius was injured and yelling at him would not be a good idea.

“Gone so soon, darling?” Sirius leered.

Remus scowled and decided that if Sirius was well enough to be annoying, he was well enough to get scolded. He had been healed, after all.)

(”That’s not enough, Moony,” Sirius said, cheerfully scooping more of Mrs. Potter’s delicious—but hearty—casserole onto Remus’s plate. Remus, not wanting to insult his friend’s mother and his host for the next two weeks, forced a smile and dug in.

“Put on a sweater, Pads, it’s too cold for just a tee,” Remus demanded before they went out into the snow. Sirius protested, but eventually sighed and loped over to Remus’s trunk, pulling out the first sweater he saw, shooting a smirk over once his head was through the neck hole.

“Sleep now,” Sirius said, pushing the essay out of his hand, and steadily ignoring Remus’s immediate, “But I need to finish this—” by talking over him and pulling him towards the beds. “Bedtime, Remus!”

At breakfast, Remus poured him a cup of tea and added sugar without thinking about it, caught up in his thoughts. Sirius took a sip and recoiled, immediately making a big dramatic show. “Ew, Remus, I thought you loved me, but here you are trying to  _ poison me _ —”

Sirius grinned, his hands in the air expressively as he said, “We could charm the books—”

“No.”

“—to dance and—”

“No.”

“—they could even start reading themselves!”

“No.”

“You’re no fun. I’m doing it anyway.”

“Don’t you dare touch that, Sirius Black, it’s an antique—!”

Mrs. Potter stood in the doorway, her boisterous laugh cutting into the air as Sirius and Remus both tried to reach for a priceless copy of  _ Ancient Prophecies: on Love and Lineage _ by Zenia Zabini. Sirius froze, but Remus had no such compunctions, and elbowed past him, getting to his tippy-toes to grab the book. “James was right,” she said, still chuckling. “You two do fight like an old married couple.”

“Like cats and dogs,” Sirius replied, relaxing as he realized Mrs. Potter wasn’t mad at them. He glanced at Remus, then, probably expecting a reaction to his stupid joke.

But he didn’t get one. Remus stood there, his face blank and his fingers tight on the cover of  _ Ancient Prophecies _ . That wasn’t the first time he’d thought about spending the rest of his life with Sirius, and it wasn’t even the first time the thought had twisted his stomach with shame and intense embarrassment. But it was the first time someone—anyone—had hinted maybe they knew this secret.  _ And James too? _ He’d thought, panicking. James was too bloody perceptive for his own good sometimes. 

He needed to back off. He couldn’t let anyone find out. A lump formed in his throat at the idea of the Slytherins knowing, how much worse it would be if he were a half-blood  _ and  _ a Gryffindor  _ and  _ a poof.

He scoffed, turning away, and missed the shuttering look in Sirius’s eyes.)

Then the Prank happened, and Remus forgot all of it in the face of betrayal and Sirius trying everything to apologize. And then they’d graduated, and they’d lived—briefly—together, and then the war picked up and Remus didn’t have time for his bloody  _ feelings _ . 

And then they were all dead or as good as.

* * *

Somewhere over the years, he’d forgotten. How sweet Sirius was when they were young, fetching this or that thing after full moons, rubbing knots out of his and James’s shoulders, sitting Peter down and explaining things in ways that made sense. How soft he looked while he slept, his eyelashes dark and his mouth curled into a little smile. The way he threw himself at people, seeking warmth and comfort wherever he could find it, and reveling in the feeling of being embraced back.

It was James who told him cuddling made everything better. The last time Remus saw them together, James could hardly stand to let go of Sirius, and Sirius—who had never had a bad word to say about hugs—clung just as tightly.

Remus sighs shallowly, tucking his face against the curve of Sirius’s skull, ignoring the way his hair catches in Remus’s stubble. He’s already holding him close, but he shifts them again, feeling an ache in his chest like it’s not enough, like it won’t be until he and Sirius are one, until Sirius is safely tucked away in Remus’s ribs.

There was a time not too long ago that Remus couldn’t stand to think about Sirius at all. The idea of touching him again made his skin crawl, the idea of talking to him sending him into fits of depression or anger. If he’d known it’d only be a few months before they were back in each other’s orbits, sleeping in the same bed, those bloody feelings surging back up—he wouldn’t believe it.

But there’s no denying it. Here he is, clinging to Sirius and gazing at the back of his head with the same reverence he’d give his face. Sirius is still so handsome, and though there’s so much they need to relearn—and learn, period—this is comforting. Despite all the pain that it took to get them here, Remus feels content holding him and being held at the same time, and running his hands through Padfoot’s fur, and passing the Prophet over in the mornings. He doesn’t want to give it up, doesn’t want to give Sirius up.

He decides, then, that it doesn’t bloody matter what happened or how he’d thought he’d die alone, the last Marauders forever separated. It doesn’t matter, and if this is how it ends—with Sirius beside him, as a friend and nothing more or as a lover or anything at all, then he can live with that. He’ll push through the awkwardness. He’ll take care of Sirius and he’ll make sure they’re both okay, if that’s what Sirius needs.

Loving him has never been easy. But nothing else has, either, and nothing else feels quite as blissful as this.

Remus is slipping back into sleep when Sirius wakes up. He shivers against him, and Remus blinks, rubbing his hand up and down his back soothingly, unconsciously. He hums, loosening his arms a bit, though he really doesn’t want Sirius to slip away or shift back into Padfoot. 

Sirius lets out a small, shaking gasp, and suddenly he’s attempting to sit up, his hands pushing gently on Remus’s chest. His breathing quickens, so quiet that if Remus were asleep, it wouldn’t be enough to wake him. But he does notice it, and stares up at him, concern and confusion over what he should do more than enough to have him alert.

“I—I’m sorry,” Sirius says, scrambling back. His eyes are lined red, his mouth a firm line like it used to be when he felt defensive and angry. “Remus, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” Remus says. He reaches out, thinking he might hold onto Sirius’s wrists, but backtracks at the last second and takes his hands instead. He still startles, and Remus tries a different tack, hoping it’ll work. “I’m serious, it really is.”

“No, I’m Sirius,” he says. He doesn’t smile, but his face softens again, the tense lines fading a bit.

Remus shakes his head like he’s exasperated, tugging gently on Sirius’s hands so he’s forced to follow him back down against the mattress. Sirius does follow, but he pauses, staring down at Remus as he leans over him, his hair a curtain around their heads.

“What are you doing?” He whispers, voice raw and gaze intense, like he’s trying to read Remus’s soul. 

He’s so daft. Twenty years, and he still hasn’t realized that Remus is just trying to take care of him.

“I’m trying to cuddle,” he says, and quickly—before Sirius can get any ideas in his head—amends, “With you, Sirius. Not Padfoot. Now come on and get down here.”

Sirius doesn’t have to be tugged or pushed any further than that. He simply falls, drawing a grunt from Remus, and wraps himself like an octopus around him. Remus closes his eyes, taking in the sensation which is swiftly becoming familiar, needed.

Somehow, when Sirius presses a kiss to his neck, he’s not surprised, doesn’t tense up or push him away and demand answers. He doesn’t need them right now. They can talk later.

But Sirius, he does tense, his body going rigid above Remus’s. “I—I—”

“Shh,” Remus soothes. He draws a hand up to rub Sirius’s neck and scalp, something he’d always done for him after full moons. He knows how lovely it feels, and thinks Sirius surely deserves it right now. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s all okay, Pads. We’re okay.”

Tears drip down against Remus’s skin into his pillow, shuddering breaths loud in his ear. He’s sure, once they get up, they’ll be back to bickering. But for now, they just hold each other. For now, they’re okay. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, please consider leaving a comment! Thank you for reading <3
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [dottie-wan-kenobi](https://dottie-wan-kenobi.tumblr.com)


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